


Doriath

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Age, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3745139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once nearly at the very end of First Age, an Elven migrant from destroyed Kingdom of Doriath met a minstrel of mortals, whose song woke so many doleful reminiscences...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doriath

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Cold and despair, chilling winds stray in deserted domes,

Time has destroyed the beauty of yours, Doriath.

Time writes the runes of crackles on your dusty walls,

Tells the grandsonstthat Fate has stopped your heart.

You don't remember the land that was joyful and great,

Years of Men look like droplets of rain at spring.

Why do you, minstrel, keep silence? Please take to the play,

Playing will suddenly break up at this grievous string.

Stones and trees keep in memory Luthien's face,

Once and again they recall it while talking of her,

They all remember your nights and your long dying days,

Ah, Doriath, your grandeur will live never more!

Just as before, the Sun rise above the tops,

Bitterly beams roam over the dwelling of dead,

As if a prayer was read in the rustle of boughs,

As if somebody foresaw the beginning of end.

Sing, you minstrel, your song is a wonderful gift.

The Past can't be back , even within the poetic art.

Sing everything what you loved, saw and overlived,

But never sing of an alien land - Doriath.


End file.
